The Cooking Conspiracy
by eretria
Summary: A comedy of errors in which Frodo tries to cook a birthday meal, Pippin takes a liking to washing things, Merry gets caught wearing a dress, Sam saves the day, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins takes the blame. (Pre-LOTR) (NOTE: co-op with Murron)
1. Default Chapter

This is a collaboration with Murron, talented writer _extraordinaire_. Go and check out her stories!

**__**

The Cooking Conspiracy  
by Eretria & Murron

  
  
Rating: G  
Category: Humor/General   
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin (non-slash)  
Timeframe: Some years after Bilbo's spectacular 111th birthday party, but still a couple of years previous to the LOTR trilogy.  
Disclaimer: The characters and settings in this story strictly belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. We remain humble admirers of his incredible work, which inspires in so many ways. This story was written for entertainment purposes only. No money is gained and no harm is meant.   
Summary: Years before the Ring journey, Frodo has to face yet another trial. Which involves a Frog-Hunt, Merry Undercover, a fabulous custard, Pippin in distress and ... Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.   
Feedback: is better than mushrooms – almost :o)  
Please leave it here or send it to: eretria@web.de & elfling@gmx.de  
A/N: This is our first try at something funny, so we hope it worked. In any case it was a whole lot of fun to write :o).   
eretria also wants to say THANK YOU for a wonderful collaboration, which often made me think that it was better to *not* let my Padawan loose too often. :o) Sheesh, she can be scary. :o)  
  
Dedication: This story is for ambersky, the first among us hobbits to get married. May you live happily ever after :o). In addition, for Leslie and Baylor, who are truly wonderful and capable beta readers. Thank you, dearies, for the great support and kind words!   
Oh, and all similarities to actual hobbits living in the neighbourhood are *purely* coincidential. *winks at Fran*  


***

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Whatever **can** go wrong, most probably **will** go wrong.

Murphy's law

Chapter 1

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***

The tin flour-box dropped to the floor, seemingly in slow motion, releasing a huge white cloud. 

"Heavens _above, _what was I _thinking_?" Frodo exclaimed, fighting a fit of coughing. 

His kitchen bore little resemblance to the pristine state Sam always kept it in, though Frodo had been in there scarcely half an hour. 

Now it was dusted with a deceptively innocent white powder. Frodo Baggins groaned and hid his face in his hands. Another coughing fit bubbled up. Most of the flour that had been clinging to his hands was now covering his cheeks and colouring his raven-black eyebrows an unbecoming grey. "What was I thinking?" 

For a moment, he was at a complete loss. He had figured that cooking was not exactly easy, but no one had told him that it would be worse than riddling with dragons. He had also never thought that his rather unhobbitish lack of cooking skill would bring about such complications. With a heavy sigh, he ran his hand through his hair, spreading the flour even more thoroughly into his dark curls. He didn't notice the pair of wide, worried eyes peeping cautiously over the casement of a rear window. 

Sam had long since laid his gardening tools aside and was now spying on Frodo with growing concern. The repeated swears and yelps of dismay coming out of the kitchen had been much too disquieting to let him stick to his work. After all, Mr. Frodo needed someone to look after him, with good Mr. Bilbo gone and all. Sam did what he could to spare his master trouble, but sometimes it proved a very difficult task. Sorrowfully, Sam shook his head. Today was his master's birthday and therefore, as a special present for his closest friends, Frodo had chosen to cook a magnificent meal. Soup, dessert, mushrooms, cakes and all with his own two hands. Yet at the moment it looked as though his ideas were all disappearing into little flour puffs. It was a pitiful sight. Sam had never understood how a hobbit could possibly be so incompetent in a kitchen. Although he had always refused to listen to others' gossip about Frodo's unhobbitlike foibles, he himself had to admit that not being able to cook _was_ quite unhobbitlike . . . more unhobbitlike even than meeting with wandering Elves in the woods, and that was saying something.

If Sam had been doubtful about this whole matter before, he now considered it to be nearing the point of a full-blown disaster. The only proper meal Mr. Frodo had ever produced in the kitchen had been a simple porridge. _'And not a very good porridge, either,'_ Sam thought, remembering the noxious smell that had wafted through Bag End for the next several days.

Trying to decide on the best course of action, Sam chewed on his lower lip. Inside, Frodo was making a half-hearted try to shove flour from the table with a cloth. '_No_,' Sam thought at last, '_this is no good at all._' Silently, he slid away from the window and hurried to the front gate. He needed go and get help. A frustrated cry followed by a tremendous clatter of dishes followed him across the lawn. 

Sam quickened his pace. The way Mr. Frodo was going, not only would there be no Birthday Dinner, Sam's precious cookware would not survive to see another meal.… 

***

We could go and see if there are some plums left on Farmer Cotton's trees."

"Nay, we did that last week."

The grass rustled lightly as Merry turned around to lie on his stomach. With an expression of strenuous concentration on his boyish face, he propped his chin in his hands.

"Then let's go swimming in one of the ponds," he proposed.

Pippin rubbed his nose and shook his head. "Uh, no. I'm not in the mood for water today." 

"Well then, Master Took," said Merry with a highly arched eyebrow, "why don't you tell me what we should do with this remarkably nice but utterly boring day? But please try something which _doesn't_ involve us getting thrown out of hole and smial." 

A wide grin shone at him and Pippin winked, cheerfully. "No need for me to tax myself, cousin. Keep thinking, you'll come up with something."

"Huh," snorted Merry, "So you admit that _I_ am the mastermind behind this partnership, while you are just my humble follower?"

Pippin laughed, getting ready to escape Merry's inevitable tickling. But fortunately, it didn't come to that. Merry seemed to be suddenly occupied by something coming down the road, and as Pippin followed his cousin's gaze, he beheld a rosy-cheeked Sam Gamgee marching swiftly in their direction.

***

Frodo still had five hours before his guests would arrive. Now that the pastry was prepared and set aside to rest, the next thing awaiting his attention was the goose. 

It couldn't be all that hard. He had watched Bilbo and Sam do this so many times, and his relatives in Buckland had had goose for dinner on the special holidays. He remembered watching the burly cook prepare the bird when he was just a wee lad.

He just had to take it, apply salt and pepper and herbs, stuff it with the apples and plums and mushrooms and ... now, how - for the love of the Shire - how was all of this supposed to fit into one little goose? Frodo stared at the bird, mistrusting the recipe more and more by the minute. 

Half of the ingredients were inside, but the other half was still littering his kitchen table. 

He went back to the cookbook Bilbo had left him and scratched his head in confusion. 

What, he had to actually _cut_ the mushrooms? And slice up the plums and apples as well? 

Right. That would explain things. Why had he thought the pastry would be a challenge? This was worse – far worse. 

He managed to cut up the plums and apples without too much fuss, but Frodo stared at the small, perfectly shaped mushrooms for a long while before taking the silver-sparkling knife again. "This hurts me more than it hurts you, trust me." he whispered when he cut the first innocent, small white form in half. 

***

Pippin reached the door of Bag End at a full run and, as soon as he was certain he had an impressive-enough look of drama on his face, burst in, gasping for breath. 

Between his heaving breaths, he exclaimed in a loud voice: "LOBELIA!" and promptly fell into one of the soft chairs as if completely drained of energy. 

Quickly he retrieved a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "It's her, Lobelia," he repeated, his widened eyes staring at Frodo, trying not to laugh at the impact of his words. 

The expression on Cousin Frodo's face was remarkable. No message could have been worse, no name uttered could have been more terrifying. 

Frodo dropped the mushroom he was holding and went instantly pale. "What do you mean?" he choked, addressing his excited cousin.

"I mean trouble's at hand," Pippin clamored, "as is always when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is around." Furrowing his brows, he sat up in the chair and quite dramatically propped his hands on the armrests. "Frodo, she's come to Hobbiton this morning, making a real fuss to all who'd listen about it being your birthday. Telling them as a proper and close relation she claims you owe her a present."

"What!" Frodo exclaimed, his cheeks flushing.

"Aye," Pippin nodded eagerly, by this time having lost himself in his part, "she wants something from Bag End, which you know she thinks should belong to her anyway -- she fancies telling everyone so often enough. The whole _Dragon_ is thrown into a turmoil. I slipped off as quickly as I could to warn you, dear cousin, but I fear she won't be far behind me." The young Took looked at the window as though he expected Lobelia's pointy nose to appear behind the sill. "She will be here any minute," Pippin said.

"Oh, botheration," Frodo swore, throwing his hands in the air, "won't I ever be free of that old dragon?"

"Not unless another dragon comes and carries her off," Pippin said with a grin. 

Frodo shook his head violently, tearing the apron from around his waist and storming out of the kitchen. 

Pippin hopped out of the chair and sneaked to the passageway, listening with a devilish smile as the hole's door slammed shut behind his elder cousin.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**__**

Chapter 2

Frodo rushed down the lawn towards the fence gate, hoping to prevent the worst. But as Sam Gamgee suddenly appeared behind the hedge wearing a thoroughly distressed expression, Frodo knew he had come too late.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried as he surveyed his master. The gardener's ears were as red as shiny apples and he was desperately wringing his handkerchief. "Oh, Mr. Frodo, I'm so sorry!"

Mentally cursing the day he had first heard the name Sackville-Baggins, Frodo stopped in front of Sam.

"Lobelia?" he asked, already knowing the answer he would get. Sam nodded, unhappily.

"She came up the hill like a storm cloud," Sam said and shuddered. "And then -- really, sir, I didn't know how to stop her. . . . She . . . she was very resolute, sir . . ."

Frodo heaved a heavy sigh and wiped his hands over his still-floury face. "All right, Sam, what did she do?"

"She came over here, where I had prepared these flower beds," Sam told him, pointing to a thatch of newly raked earth. "I wanted to plant that potted rose I've tended since early summer, you know, the purple one." A spark lit up in the gardener's eyes as he told of the flower the way fathers spoke of their children. "It was the best rose I've ever grown. Very rare, indeed, and beautiful." Sam looked down at the empty earth at his side and his face was the very picture of woe. Frodo followed the other's gaze and, seeing no flower there, he knew what had happened even before Sam continued. "Mistress Lobelia found the rose quite fair, too," Sam said, downhearted. "She looked at it and before I could say a word, she had snatched it up, pot and all." He avoided looking at his master and concentrated very, very hard on his handkerchief. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo. Really, I am. She said they'd be your present to her. You know, for your birthday and all…"

"How dare she!" Frodo cried out and clenched his fists. Lobelia had always been a nuisance, but this latest act of brazen thievery absolutely did it. "Oh no," Frodo fumed, "not this time. She won't get away with this, or there'll be no stopping her." With flaming eyes he turned to his gardener. "Where did she go, Sam?"

"Down the hill, yonder," Sam pointed the direction, "only a few moments ago."

With a determined stride, Frodo pushed the gate open and went to pursue his burden of a relation and her prize. Sam waited until his master was out of sight, then breathed a sigh of relief and walked up to the hole's door.

***

**__**

Pippin stepped back from the window with a grin that almost swallowed his pointed ears. It worked so well, it was almost too easy. With a delighted giggle he turned around as Sam entered the kitchen. The gardener's cheeks still gleamed with his effort to pull off this little conspiracy.

"It worked," Pippin stated gleefully, contented with the results so far.

"Yes. Good job, Master Pippin," Sam said with a nod.

"Thank you," Pippin replied with a broad smile and a little bow, and then added with a wink: "But you're not the worst actor, either. I was watching the whole time, Sam, and you were almost as convincing as I was." 

Sam lowered his eyes, his ear tips once more reddening. "I hate to lie to Mr. Frodo, though."

"Oh, don't bother yourself that way, Sam. It wasn't really a lie, just make-believe," Pippin said loftily with a shrug. "If you were a little more into the mischief business you would be perfectly used to it. Besides, it's for his own good." Rubbing his hands, he went over to the kitchen hearth. "Now let's see what we have so far," he said, lifting the lid of a pot and dipping out a spoonful of soup. The moment the concoction touched his lips, Pippin grimaced and turned away in disgust.

"Eoww," Pippin squeaked, trying to get the taste from his tongue, "that's awful." Shaking his head, he laid the spoon aside. "I never thought anyone could mess up a meal like this."

"He never learned it," Sam said from behind Pippin. The gardener had picked up Frodo's abandoned apron and tied it around himself. With experienced eyes he looked around the kitchen, then began to collect the tools and ingredients he would need. "Mr. Bilbo did all the cooking," he explained to Pippin meanwhile. "Mr. Frodo seldom came near the kitchen, except for a simple bite that didn't need no cooking." 

"Well," Pippin said with a dubious frown towards the soup, "I'm beginning to think this plan was quite a good idea. It's lucky Merry and I were nearby, Sam, that's all I can say . . ."

***

**__**

Behind a bush near the road, Merry huddled low, peering intently through the leaves and twigs. So far the road lay empty, but soon the seething figure of Frodo would appear, stomping on in search of Lobelia like a dwarf to a battle. Merry had to suppress a chuckle. Considering that they were doing this only for Frodo's benefit, the whole prank was incredible fun. 

Except for the skirt. 

Frowning, Merry looked down to where layers of thick fabric billowed around his knees. How could lasses wear this every day and not go mad? He shook his head, once again deciding that he didn't understand the minds of females, and really didn't want to. Merry sat back on his heels, careful not to tip over the flowerpot Sam had given him. All in all, their plan was quite simple and yet it was perfect. First they had needed something to lure Frodo out of the hole. And what better bait than Frodo's all-time bane, Lobelia? 

Merry grinned broadly. For the first time, the old dragon was actually good for something. To make it look real and to occupy Frodo for a good while, they had decided to set up a credible masquerade. They '_borrowed'_ some ladies' garments from a nearby clothesline and fitted them on Merry. Sam gave him his precious rose along with several words of warning about its safe return, and off he went. Pippin and Sam would send Frodo after Lobelia/Merry and then Sam would get the chance to rescue the birthday meal. It all went well -- Frodo came storming down the Hill and Merry showed himself quickly in the distance before disappearing from Frodo's sight. Merry had continued the play until he had led his cousin a good deal away from Bag End, then he had gone into hiding at the side of the road. Now he was waiting. He had been waiting quite a long time. The sun warmed his neck and slowly but surely his new robes were getting seriously uncomfortable. Still Frodo did not appear.

'_Come on, cousin,_' Merry thought. If he actually were Lobelia, the stolen flowers would be long since gone for good. Merry huffed impatiently and leaned back on his elbows. A sudden rustling in the high grass behind him made him turn his head quickly, startled. 

Before him stood a little hobbit-lass, who had probably just seen her seventh summer. "Hullo," she said.

"Hullo," Merry returned with a smile. The lass chewed on a straw and looked down at him with serious eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm hiding," Merry said and conspiratorially laid one finger to his lips. The lass let go of her straw and sat down beside Merry, regarding him from head to toe.

"Why are you dressed so funny?" she asked, pointing to the white bonnet on Merry's unruly curls. Merry's eyes widened and for a moment all he could think of to utter was a most undignified '_uhm_.' What should he say? He had actually forgotten about his rather curious state of appearance.

"I'm in disguise," he answered finally, silently hoping the lass belonged to no one he knew. The little thing nodded earnestly as if she understood the whole importance of Merry hiding behind a bush in woman's gear. A grin spread over Merry's features. Children certainly were the better hobbits. And suddenly, as he looked at his newfound companion, another idea came to his mind. _'Merry Brandybuck, you are quite brilliant_,' he congratulated himself silently, then peeped out from between the leaves once more.

In the far distance he finally beheld his cousin – Frodo – who by now looked a little worse for the wear and apparently very much out of breath. 

Merry hid back behind the bush and waved for the lass to come closer. "Tell me, lassie – what do you think of a wee adventure?" 

The lass eyed him for a few moments, clearly doubting this strangely dressed elder's state of mind, but curiosity soon won over and she nodded, a delighted gleam in her eyes reminding Merry remarkably of a certain young Took. He grinned, and began to whisper his plan. 

**__**

TBC

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Let us know. :o)


	3. Chapter 3

**__**

Chapter 3

(3/14)

Hmmm. That's better, Sam," Pippin said between two spoonfuls of soup. "Could use a little more salt, though." 

Sam Gamgee tried hard to ignore the young Took's constant meddling. He had managed to save the soup – mostly. With Mr. Pippin's gracious assistance, he had remembered not to make the meal perfect. After all, Mr. Frodo would be rather suspicious should everything be flawless. 

"What about the bird, Sam?" Pippin's voice sounded from the other side of the table. "Are you sure everything is set? Nothing's missing?" 

Sam heaved a sigh. How could Mr. Merry stand to be around Master Pippin for days without having a break? As charming as the young Took could be, he could also be wearing to one's nerves. 

"Yes, Master Pippin, I am fairly sure nothing's missing." Sam managed to keep his pleasant tone from sounding forced.

"Well, what about the pastry? It needs a filling, doesn't it?" To Sam's profound horror, Pippin stuck his finger into the bowl with the freshly prepared custard and removed a large dollop of it. He licked his finger clean and rolled his eyes in delight. "Oh, but bless you, that is the best custard I have ever tasted, Sam. How did you do that?" 

He needed to get Frodo's youngest cousin out of the kitchen, or there simply wouldn't be enough food left by the time Mr. Frodo came home. "It's an old recipe from the gaffer's gaffer. Or was it the gaffer's gaffer's grandmother? I can't rightly say. Now, if you could ..." 

"Oh, so it was Old Gammidgy's grandmother?" 

Oh, no. That had been the wrong way. Pippin's – like all good hobbits' – interest in family history was quite remarkable, and before Sam could do so much as blink, Peregrin Took had sat down comfortably before the open fireplace in the kitchen, reached for the pot and poured himself a cup of tea. 

Sam's hand clenched tightly around the handle of his frying pan. Decent folk shouldn't talk as much as Master Pippin did. Mr. Frodo was a nice gentlehobbit, and he never talked that much. Mr. Merry didn't talk that much, the rare times Sam had seen him without Pippin; and when he was with his younger cousin, Pippin naturally was the one who did the most chattering. Usually Sam found the young Took amusing, but this time he was coming between Sam's duty as a cook and his cooking-gear. This was no laughing matter anymore. And Mr. Frodo could be back any minute now. 

***

A high-pitched scream suddenly sounded from somewhere down the hill, and with a large grin, a surprised Frodo saw Lobelia hitching up her skirts and running as though all the dark powers of Middle Earth combined were after her. The lush green field could barely swallow the flurry of colourful skirts. 

Frodo also beheld a small hobbit-lass, staring after the hysterical woman, who was still screaming in the oddest tone of voice. It looked strange, Frodo noticed. Lobelia was almost stomping, and it looked as though she had never worn a skirt before – it was a most disgraceful sight. 

By the time he had stopped grinning, the lass had walked up the hill and now stood before him, looking at him with curious green eyes. Frodo also noticed a flowerpot in her hand – Sam's precious purple rose. 

He couldn't believe that Lobelia had actually let go of her "_present_." 

"How did you come by that pretty flower?" Frodo crouched next to the lass so that they could look each other in the eyes without the lass getting a stiff neck. 

"Mistress Lobelia dropped it." 

"She ... dropped it?" Frodo asked, incredulously. 

The lass nodded. Was it only his imagination, or was a there a twinkle in the lass' eyes? 

"Yes. She was stomping down the hill, and she looked quite happy – sort of. Still, she was stomping so much, making a lot of noise. When I asked her not to scare the mouse I had been playing with, she just looked at me, and her eyes went big and round and then she started screaming and ran away. She dropped everything she had with her, even her handkerchief." The lass smiled mischievously. "She didn't come back for the flower, nor ought else." 

Frodo bit down on his lip. Hard. The picture of Lobelia running through the field, her skirts hitched up and ... _stomping_ away in panic of a wee mouse ... It was almost too good to be true. And on top of things, he had managed to recover Sam's beloved rose. 

"Do you know whose rose that it, lassie?" 

A smile lit up the lass' face. The warm wind of the September afternoon moved her flaming red curls. "Of course I know. It's mine." 

Oh no. Frodo raised his eyes to the heaven. What had he done? What had he done to deserve this?

***

Merry was immensely proud of himself. After uncounted successful pranks in his long career he was familiar with the sweet taste of triumph, but today he had surely excelled himself. With sweeping strides he marched down the path, his bright blue eyes sparkling with delight. He couldn't wait to tell Pippin of the little extra touch of spice he had added to their plan and how finely it had worked. This conspiracy was going to be their masterpiece! After this day, Pippin and he were clearly on a higher level of mischief-making. So many new doors were opening, so many possibilities. In his high spirits Merry was no longer bothered by the hindering skirts. He didn't mind the sparkling white bonnet or the fine apron tied to his waist. His thoughts were already back at Bag End and he relished in the imagining of telling his tale -- until it was too late.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

The sharp voice sounded like a whiplash to his ears. Merry froze to the spot, turning as white as one of Frodo's coverlets. A dismayed "No" escaped his lips, but it was too late to wish the inevitable away. He thought his knees would abandon him and felt his heart stop. Slowly, oh, so very slowly he turned around, looking down into a pair of glaring brown eyes. A hard lump rose in his throat.

"Rosie . . ." he said weakly, remembering his manners despite his embarrassment. The hobbit maiden stood in the middle of the path, her hands planted on her hips and her fair cheeks flushed with anger. The very sight of her made the formerly triumphant Merry desperately wish the ground would swallow him up. Rosie Cotton usually was a cheerful hobbit lass, her liveliness charming many a lad's heart, Sam Gamgee's not the least. But she also was known for her fiery temper and it appeared Merry was going to experience it now first-hand.

"What is going on in that foolish head of yours?" she thundered, her rich locks jiggling over her ears. "Taking my clothes from the line! It took me all morning to do my laundry and you, you mischievous scoundrel, have the nerve to steal them and . . ." Suddenly she stopped and only now did she seem to _really_ see him. Her eyes narrowed and her hands slowly dropped to her sides. '_Swallow_,' Merry thought, '_swallow me now.'_

". . . and put them on," she muttered, more to herself. "Why did you put my clothes on?"

Merry quickly looked down at his toes, but they peeked out at his eyes from under the hem of a lass' frilly skirt, and that didn't make him feel any better.

"I . . . er . . . well, it's . . . you know . . ." he mumbled helplessly. His poor mind, meanwhile, created a whole range of horrible scenarios. If news of Meriadoc Brandybuck wearing lasses' clothing were passed round . . . in the inn, the town, maybe getting back to the Hall . . . What if his father found out? The thought iced the young hobbit's very heart. He didn't even dare to imagine Saradoc's reaction. Why in the Shire hadn't he thought of that possibility before? For the life of him Merry couldn't find a word to say, so he risked a sheepish glance at the lass on the path. What he saw assured him that his fate was sealed.

A broad grin was spreading over Rosie Cotton's face and in her eyes Merry saw a sparkling that topped any mischievous, devilish glint he had ever seen on Pippin Took, and that was saying something.

" Rosie . . . I can explain . . ." Merry said, trying to rescue whatever was possible of this ridiculous situation.

"Oh, I'll just bet you can," she said, her grin widening. "Well, do then. I'm waiting."

Merry opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and came up with the most plausible silence he could manage.

Rosie shook her head and laughed. Merry again stared at his feet, and slowly a defiant anger started to build up inside him. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and stood tall, determined to keep what was left of his dignity. Her next words, though, made his newfound strength quickly falter, and he knew he was truly doomed.

"You know, dearest Meriadoc," Rosie said, trying hard to stifle her laughter, "even as a lad you have a tendency to spoil every handsome aspect on you by wearing dirty clothes and apparently avoiding any use of a comb. I didn't think one could beat that." She looked at him intently and Merry felt like his face was set aflame. "But now I really must say -- you're the most unsightly lass I've ever seen." 

That was the moment Merry thought he would turn into a spotty toad and hop away to eke out a miserable existence in some muddy duck pond. Rosie didn't mind, though. She obviously enjoyed the whole situation.

"I wonder what your cousins will say to that new fashion of yours," she chuckled.

"No!" Merry cried out and suddenly his voice was back. "Don't tell them! Sam and Pippin know . . . we're only helping because of the birthday cooking, because otherwise it will all be messed up and he will be disappointed and . . . please, don't tell Frodo." He stopped, fearfully waiting for her reaction.

Rosie looked at him for a moment, then her smile grew more friendly and less mocking. "All right, I won't let Frodo hear of it," she said at last. "He's got no ear for gossip, anyways. Always has his nose in the books and other stupidities." She shook her head in disapproval. "Bagginses." And with a well-placed pause she added: "Brandybucks."

"Thank you, Rosie," Merry said, feeling truly grateful. "Uhm. Sorry, I took . . . well, borrowed, your clothes."

"Never mind." She shook her head and winked at him. "And, Merry -- please never, ever tell me what this is all about."

"I won't," he promised, actually feeling able to smile back at her. Rosie was a nice lass, he thought. No wonder Sam liked her. At that point things looked much better and Merry began to think he would get off quite lightly, after all.

"But do you know what I think?" the nice lass said, and as Merry looked up at her, his breath once more caught in his throat. A thin smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and there was that certain glint again. "My friends will be eager to hear of your journey into womanhood. Maybe we can think of some reasons you might have had for this." Rosie cocked her head slightly aside and Merry's blood grew cold. "Oh, and don't worry. We can keep secrets."

Once more she winked at him, but this time it seemed to Merry like a gesture of pure evil.

"I think I'll go now," Rosie decided, "so you can do . . . well, whatever you've planned to do."

"Yes," Merry said, feeling very, very small.

With a last look at him, Rosie chuckled lightly, then she turned to walk away. "Goodbye, Merry. Tell Sam I said hello. And please do come to one of our afternoon teas. I'm sure my friends will have a lot to ask you."

Merry's shoulders slumped forward and as if to mock him further, the apron loosened around his waist and slid to the ground, abandoning him. Despondently, he bit his lip. He knew when he had lost. And Rosie would cherish her victory, he was sure of that. He lifted his head and saw the lass walk away, her steps spurred by her unrestrained mirth.

"Don't you want your bonnet back at least?" he called after her.

"No, keep it," she returned over her shoulder, "it looks rather good on you."

'_Gracious heavens_,' Merry thought, feeling as helpless as a mouse in a trap.

**__**

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

***

A silken ribbon?" 

"No."

"A pretty glass pearl, perhaps?"

"No."

"A cake?"

"No."

Frodo sat back on his heels, being at his wit's very end. His face must have been a clearly mirrored plea, even to a child as young as this one, but the little lass changed neither her statement nor her mind.

"Look, lassie," he said, "what's your name?"

"Daisy," she answered earnestly, closing her little arms closer around the flowerpot.

"Look, Daisy," Frodo tried once more, "this rose really is very precious to me. Is there nothing you would take for it?"

"No."

With a thoroughly frustrated sound coming from deep inside him, Frodo lowered his head between his knees. This must be a bad dream. A nightmare. Not for the first time he wished he had stayed in bed this morning, with the quilt over his head and the blinds shut tight. Sleeping through his birthday -- next year he would certainly do that. Bagginses were known for being untraditional. . . . Well, he would be untraditional and give himself a birthday gift next year by not taking one step out from under his covers.

"Nothing at all?" he muttered from between his knees. A short silence followed. 

Then the lass answered, somewhat hesitantly. "Perhaps I would."

Frodo's head jerked up and he met the innocent eyes of the child.

"You want to trade?" he asked, hardly believing it. She nodded. Frodo sighed heavily. Now they finally seemed to be getting somewhere. "For what?" he asked, ready to give away Bag End's whole inventory only to get it over and done with. "What do you want?" 

The lass tilted up her head and said rather calmly: "A frog."

***

Merry knew quite well that he looked strange. He had gotten rid of Rosie's skirts, apron and bodice as soon as she had walked out of sight, but Pippin had taken his shirt and weskit along with him, so he was left to walk back to Bag End in naught but his breeches. It was pure luck that the day was still warm for September. Little insects were buzzing over the well-trodden path along the Bywater pool. Yet the air already smelled of the looming autumn, a sharp clearness that refreshed the senses and promised a rich harvest. 

"Oi, Brandybuck!" 

Merry was startled out of his pleasant thoughts and was hard pressed to stop himself from cringing. What had made him think he would get back to Bag End unnoticed? Why were his usually lucky stars hating him so much today? Why? 

When he came to Bag End, he would kill Pippin. And then he would kill Sam. And afterwards he would eat all the 

food they had prepared. Every bite. 

Merry walked on, raising his gaze calmly from the ground. He would not give Ted Sandyman the satisfaction of seeing him blush. But neither would he give the unpleasant miller's son the pleasure to see the Master of Buckland's son looking down, unable to meet Ted's eyes. He simply refused to ... 

"Brandybuck! Isn't it a bit cold to be going out without a shirt on? Or can't the Master of Buckland afford to dress his son properly?" 

__

'Don't listen. Walk on.' 

Oh yes. All the food. Or maybe ... maybe he shouldn't kill them after all. At least not right away. Maybe he should tie them both to chairs and eat all the food in front of their noses, making them watch. One mushroom after the other ... 

The plump body of the miller's son suddenly appeared before Merry's eyes and interrupted his sweet thoughts of revenge. 

"What is it, Master Meriadoc? Has your infamously big mouth suddenly stopped working? Can't you give me an answer?" 

Merry breathed deeply, set his jaw and gave his best impression of a forced smile. 

__

'Every single mushroom. And the custard. I will eat all of Pippin's beloved custard. And I will drink Sam's beer. Oh yes.' 

What he didn't know was that to Ted Sandyman, it looked dangerously as though the young Brandybuck was baring his teeth. 

"Did you want something specific, Ted Sandyman?"

Ted looked at Merry from head to toe with his own false smile on his lips. "You won't win any lassie's heart like that." 

So _that_ was what this was all about. The young Brandybuck knew that the lasses found him quite irresistible and Merry didn't even try to stop the grin from spreading over his features. "Is that so?" He glanced directly at the miller's son's swollen belly and his short, plump arms and legs, and raised an eyebrow. "I do think I have a better chance than you have, Sandyman." 

Ted Sandyman's mouth fell open in an incredibly ridiculous expression of disbelief.

"Have a nice afternoon," said Merry, puffing his chest and walking briskly up the Hill towards Bag End. 

If only he didn't meet anyone else along the way, this could end as a fine day, after all. 

He had barely walked ten steps when Ted Sandyman's voice called after him: "Oi, Brandybuck! Meant to tell you ... nice bonnet you have there." 

Merry stopped dead in his tracks. His hand went to his head. He felt the soft material of Rosie Cotton's white bonnet still riding upon his curly hair. 

__

'Why,' he wondered, feelings strangely calm when he heard the roaring laughter of the miller's son. _'Why did I ever let myself get talked into this?'_

His plan for revenge was standing clearly in front of his inner eye. Pippin would suffer. Oh yes ... 

***

A ... frog you say?" 

The lass nodded earnestly. 

"A toy frog?" 

"No." 

"One made of cake, then?" Frodo almost sprained his brain, trying to come up with more things which maybe would make the lass reconsider. He knew quite well what she meant. But he simply refused to acknowledge it. 

The lass was slowly becoming bored by the older one's utter lack of understanding. She shook her head vigorously, making her curls gleam like they were made of pure fire. 

Her green eyes sparkled, and her freckled face showed resolute determination. "A real frog." 

"Real." 

"Uh-huh." 

"Real." Frodo suddenly had the urge to hit his head against the next available tree trunk. Hard. He could have given her anything she wanted. But what did she want? A frog. A real frog. Where was Pippin when he truly needed him? 

"Are you sure?" 

The lass chewed on her bottom lip, and scrutinised the potted rose in her hand. She seemed to ponder if she really wanted to let go of it. 

__

'Not good,' thought Frodo. Why did he have to make her doubt? Wonderful. Just wonderful. Now he would have to get her the frog, and quickly, before she reconsidered and decided to keep the rose after all. 

__

'Oh Sam. If I didn't like you so much ...' 

"Come on, then. A real frog it shall be." Frodo reached for the lass' hand and the small fingers were almost swallowed by his palm. "Why don't you sing me a song on the way down to the pool? I'm thinking you must have a beautiful voice." 

The lass nodded and started a song. 

Seconds later, Frodo wished he would learn to keep his mouth shut. 

***

A gasping Merry rushed into Bag End's round door and quickly shut it behind him, leaning his back against the wood. Slowly, he slumped to the floor and laid his head on his knees, breathing heavily. He had made it! 

He was quickly joined by Pippin, whose round, inquisitive eyes were the first thing he saw when he finally he lifted his head. Perspiration matted Merry's already unruly brown curls. 

"What's the matter? Merry? ... Merry?" It was good to hear that Pippin at least sounded a little worried. Maybe he would kill him later, if his cousin kept being nice. 

Still. There was something that needed to be said. Right now. 

"My dearest Peregrin," he began, "I regret to inform you that this is the inglorious end of my once brilliant career of constant mischief-making." 

Pippin opened his mouth in shock, and didn't seem to be able to close it. His eyes grew even bigger. A look of dismay and disbelief replaced his concern. "Wh-What?" was the only word he finally managed to squeak out. 

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

***

No crop-thievery," Merry listed, "no chasing of Farmer Grubb's hens, no pie-lifting, no nothing. I'm done. Utterly. Completely. Finished. Done."

Pippin closed his mouth with a snap and dropped to the floor as fast as if his knees had given out, staring at his cousin in disbelief. "Merry . . ." he managed, and because he couldn't think of anything else to say he stuttered out a weak protest: "But Merry, you . . . you can't do that. You and I . . . we're a team Merry. What . . . we always went for mischief together!"

"Oh yes?" Merry said, and now his eyes dangerously narrowed, "Together, is it? I didn't see you running around Hobbiton and Bywater in _skirts_." His voice nearly cracked at the last word, making Pippin jump.

"But . . . but I thought we said . . ." Pippin began in desperation. He was in trouble here.

"I know what we said!" Merry exclaimed. "'_It will be a perfect masquerade_,'" he mimicked Pippin's piping Tookish brogue. "_'Frodo will never figure out what we did. And look -- you can wear the clothes, Merry! You have just the right build.'_" His blue eyes blazed and slowly but surely Pippin was really getting afraid. He just could not figure what was suddenly wrong with his cousin.

Merry ground his teeth in seeding sarcasm. "A wonderful plan, indeed. Making me walk down the road to Hobbiton -- the often-used road, mind you -- dressed like a lass."

Now finally, understanding dawned on Pippin. "Someone saw you?" he said, brows lifting in horror. Pippin had failed to account for that possibility in the heat of his planning.

"Oh, whatever gave you _that_ idea?" Merry snapped.

That was the moment Sam appeared in the hallway, a ladle in his right hand and a great bowl clamped under his arm.

"Mr. Merry?" he asked, concern reflected on his friendly face. "Are you all right?"

Enough was enough. Merry jumped to his feet and waved his hands through the air, indicating his bare chest.

"Do I look it?" he cried out. Glaring at the startled faces of his co-conspirators he stormed on: "I was caught wearing a skirt, a bodice and a _frilly _apron. No, I'm not all right. I will never set foot out of this hole again, if you care to know. Today whatever good reputation I actually may have had has been completely demolished. And you can be sure Rosie will make it a tale before the moon's up tonight."

"Rosie?" Sam asked and his face turned into an interesting shade of red. "Rosie Cotton?"

"Herself," Merry assured him, grimly. "She looked for her clothes and was thoroughly out of sorts when she found them, I can tell you both!"

"It were her clothes?" Sam gasped, his voice diminished to a thin whimper. 

"Including the bonnet." Merry leaned back against the door, closing his eyes and exhaling a deep breath. "I don't know how I let you talk me into doing this, Pippin, I really don't know how." 

An uncomfortable silence settled in the usually welcoming hallway. Even the excellent scent drifting out from the kitchen didn't defuse the odd atmosphere. Then Pippin broke into a gale of laughter that resounded from the vaulted walls and echoed in Bag End's deepest tunnels. Sam almost feared to see a black cloud form itself over Merry's head and he expected the hobbit to explode any second.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Merry," Pippin hiccuped, but one look at his glowering cousin made him break into new peals of laughter, shaking the young hobbit even harder.

"Aye, do laugh, Pippin," Merry said in a threatening low voice. 

Pippin should have been alerted, but still the irresistible urge to chuckle at the humor of the whole situation held him fiercely in its grip. Merry waited until his cousin had calmed down, then the older hobbit clasped his hands behind his back and eyed Pippin with a carefully measuring expression. 

Sam took one step backwards, ready to retreat into the safety of his kitchen.

"You think this is funny?" Merry said, slowly approaching the young Took. "A laughing matter, is it? Wait until you bring the clothes back to Rosie and apologise. That will be fun."

Instantly any wish to laugh was taken away from Pippin and his eyes once more widened in shock. "What? No, Merry, I can't do that!" he stammered.

"Oh yes, you can," Merry said sweetly and dangerously. "Someone will have to rescue our venture and my reputation. Since this was your idea I think it is only fair that you take care of the job."

Pippin opened his mouth, but Merry cut him short by producing the aforementioned bonnet and depositing it on Pippin's head. "Go. Tell her everything. Make her keep it a secret. And pray that you'll find the right thing to say to persuade her."

Pippin stood, paralyzed. "But I . . ."

"The rest of her clothes are hidden under that big bush by the duck pond. You can collect them on your way." Merry grabbed Pippin's arm and dragged him to the door. "I'm sure you'll find Rosie at home by now."

"But . . ." Pippin tried to get Merry to take pity by countering with his most beseeching, 'please don't do this to me I'll be good I promise' expression, but Merry was having none of it. He had taught it to Pippin anyway.

"If I was in your place, I'd hurry," Merry said smoothly, "lest you want naught of Sam's strawberry dessert. In any case . . ." the elder hobbit paused for a moment to open the door, ". . . I don't think there'll be much dessert left by the time you make it back. Or mushrooms." With that he shoved the young Took out of the hole and shut the door tight behind him. All he heard was a terrified "Merry!" sounding from the other side.

With a satisfied grunt Merry turned his back towards the door and marched towards the kitchen, picking up his shirt from the hallstand as he went. 

Sam stood still for another moment, blinking incredulously at the scene that had just transpired. Then he grabbed his bowl tighter and slowly followed Merry. Secretly he made a note to never cross the young Brandybuck. Future Master of Buckland indeed. 

As he entered the kitchen, Merry had seated himself besides at the table. Sam looked over the glinting copper pots and suddenly felt a great ease growing inside of him. As harsh as the departure of young Master Pippin had been, at least now Sam could concentrate on his task without watching every movement of the lad. He would be able to finish the meal and no food was in danger of disappearing before Mr. Frodo could return. With a relieved sigh he placed the bowl on the table and went for some spice cups.

"It's good you sent Master Pippin to bring the clothes back," he announced. "Miss Rosie would surely be sad if she lost them." His cheeks blushed brightly and he quickly cleared his throat. "I mean, he certainly will be a lot of help to her. He is . . . uhm . . . quite energetic."

"He is," Merry agreed. "Especially so when he's near food, as you surely have noticed." With that he pushed a spoon into the bowl before him and retrieved a large amount of custard, which promptly disappeared into his mouth. Sam almost dropped the cups he was carrying. "Bless me, this is the best custard ever," Merry exclaimed. "How did you do that, Sam?" And suddenly Sam realised just one more reason why Mr. Merry and Master Pippin got along so well together. 

***

Pippin Took ran down the path from the duck pond like his life depended on it. The pile of clothes (plus the bonnet) was pressed against his chest, bright colors gleaming in the afternoon sun. Afternoon! Already Pippin had the horrible vision of the meal beginning at Bag End. In his mind he saw the wonderful strawberry pudding diminish to a poor spoonful, until nothing was left but the bare bowl. Clenching his teeth, Pippin increased his speed.

'_Foolish Took,_' he thought, '_why did you have to laugh at Merry? What a folly!_' He had seldom felt his cousin's wrath himself, but certainly knew the warning signs, and had blithely ignored them. '_Foolish, foolish Took_,' he thought again. Seriously short of breath, he came to the little green hill where the Cottons' home stood. Panting, he slowed his steps, his fingers digging ever deeper into the clothes in his arms. While he went round the hill to come up the path through the garden, Pippin repeated the words he had prepared on the way. Just a quick explanation, some well-chosen arguments and it would be done. 

Squaring his shoulders, Pippin passed the hill's side and came to the cozy yard. White dogroses wound over the fences, spreading a sweet and welcoming scent. In between the flowers was Rosie Cotton, and with her stood her friend Margy. 

It should have been a beautiful picture, but somehow it appeared unsettling to Pippin. He swallowed what hesitation there was in him and more or less courageously proceeded, his most engaging smile frozen on his face.

***

At the bank of the little river arm Frodo hesitated. He stared at the water, which looked uninvitingly brown and scummy. The distinct musty smell of silt did nothing to encourage him.

"Most of the frogs are there," the lass informed him, pointing towards a patch of thickly grown reeds. "You can hear them on summer evenings."

Frodo said nothing, but cast a doubtful glance at the thicket. Then he braced himself and made an approach. After all, what was so difficult about catching a frog? He had done it several times back in Buckland. So indeed, why should he be bothered? He just had to be silent, careful and quick. If he was clever enough he didn't even have to wet his hands. 

Shoving some reeds aside, Frodo stepped into the shallow water. The muddy brew lapped against his ankles and he screwed up his face in disgust. The lass behind him watched him with eager interest. Frodo sincerely wondered what he had ever found cute about children. Ignoring the slimy whatever under his feet and between his toes, he advanced further. When the reeds had closed behind him and he could see the small river's course through the blades ahead, Frodo heard a hesitant croaking to his left side. A smile spread over the hobbit's face. That went quite smoothly. Carefully balancing on one foot, he leaned forward to shove the hindering rushes aside. Soundlessly, as was a hobbit's nature, he spied through the green rush and discovered a tiny frog in the knee-deep water. Narrowing his eyes, Frodo bent a little further. 

The black round eyes of the creature met his and for a moment the gazes of hunter and prey were locked. Then Frodo shot forward, his arm stretching towards the green croaker. But the frog seemed to disappear into thin air, hopping swiftly out of Frodo's reach. One might say that this threw the hobbit out of balance. 

Literally. 

First Frodo hung in midair, then the next moment he went down in a tremendous splash. Slimy water -- the epitome of disgustingness -- oozed into his clothes and spattered all over his face. He didn't get up at once. Little bubbles surfaced from the place where he lay as his clenched fingers dug into the soft soil underwater.

__

'Hands clean,' he thought wryly_, 'oh yes . . .'_

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

****

Chapter 6

"And that's why Merry wore your clothes," ended Pippin. "We really only wanted to help Frodo." He looked expectantly up into Rosie Cotton's eyes, who returned his glance thoughtfully.

"And you are telling me the truth?" she asked. Pippin nodded vehemently, trying to look as credible as he could. In the meantime he stepped nervously from one foot to another. This talk was lasting far too long. Why couldn't these lasses just believe him and let it be? He had apologised properly and told the tale in even more detail than he had planned to. But still they were holding him up. Out of the corner of his eye Pippin could see that the sun had already sunk dangerously low. '_Strawberries_,' he thought, desperately. '_Mushrooms_.'

Obviously unaware of his trouble, Rosie turned to her friend. "What do you think?" she asked.

Margy laughed lightly. "This is the oddest story I ever heard. But it fits them. I believe him."

"Indeed," Rosie agreed, "it will surely make for great tale-telling on boring evenings."

"No!" Pippin cried. "Please no! Don't tell anybody! It would ruin the whole thing and Merry . . . he's already upset." The young Took glumly hung his head, remembering his cousin's glowering stare. "It was my idea, so he blames it on me that . . . well, that you saw him dressed like that and all."

"So you should think about avoiding such debacles for your cousin in the future," Rosie teased.

"Yes," Pippin answered, sheepishly. But then as an inevitable afterthought he added: "But it worked."

The lasses laughed brightly at this, then Rosie looked at the lad and a glint that Merry would have recognised appeared in her eyes. "It _seemingly_ worked, yes. But it only truly worked if we agree to keep your secret."

Pippin stared at them, unbelieving. Sam always said Rosie was such a gentle lass!

"We might, though," Rosie said, "under one condition."

Obviously, Sam didn't know Rosie well enough. Pippin gloomily clenched his teeth. He found he didn't really want to hear what would come next. The hope for an intact and incomparably large pudding vanished before his hungry eyes.

"You'll have to buy our discretion," Rosie informed him.

"Buy?" Pippin echoed lamely, fearing for the worst.

Without comment Rosie handed him back the pile of clothes Pippin had just given her. "My washboard is still down at the brook," she told him. "I left it there this morning. You'll also find a bar of soap there."

Pippin's shoulders slumped as if the clothes weighed as heavy as stones.

"You don't think Rosie would wash all morning and let you to ruin her work?" Margy asked sweetly. 

Pippin felt himself strongly remembering the vengeful orcs in Bilbo's tales. '_Ugly, vengeful orcs_,' he thought defiantly.

"It's quite simple, Peregrin," Rosie said. "Wash the clothes that you caused to be dirtied and no one will ever know of your little adventure."

'_Yes_,' Pippin thought, '_and I wish I'd never known of it, either_.'

***

This day Pippin learned that there were times when he didn't like Merry much. Well, almost didn't like him anyway. Frantically scrubbing the soap down the skirt, which bore a remarkable number of grass stains, the young hobbit recited nearly every curse that had ever come to his ear -- silently, mindful of the two lasses who sat nearby. Of course Merry had a right to be angry. Who wouldn't be seething in such a situation? But after the first time the bonnet had slipped into the water and began to swim away with the current, Pippin had decided this was far too heavy a punishment.

' _If I ever, ever get the chance_,' Pippin thought, ' _I'll make him wash the whole Brandy Hall's laundry. Oh yes, I will_.' 

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder to where Rosie and Margy sat on a grassy slope, chatting cheerfully about who knew what. Pippin promised himself that as soon as this cursed day was over he would think of a prank so devilishly clever and cunning as the whole Shire had never seen before. The lasses would have no idea what came over them. But that hope for the future was the only satisfaction inside the young Took. 

Wiping some soap flakes from his forehead, he straightened. Critically, he surveyed his work. It looked quite clean to his eye. Sighing, he stood up, gathering the clothes in his arms. 

Fleetingly he thought that if old Bilbo was still here, he could have made a great book out of this day. Pippin only wished he had been the one to read it and not one of the plagued main characters. On the other hand -- what kind of a writer would want to write such a story? Only a profoundly wicked one, of course, in which case Pip would never be allowed to read it. 

Pippin was about to walk towards his tormentors when a questioning voice stopped him on the spot.

"Pippin? What are you doing here?" 

Pippin bit his lip and turned. Next thing was, he almost dropped the cleaned laundry. 

"F-Frodo?" he stammered, unbelievingly. 

***

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

****

Chapter 7

(7/14)

***

His cousin stood right before him and yet it was only the familiar voice that made it possible for Pippin to recognise him. What had formerly been Frodo's best weskit now was a mess of sticky water-weed and oozy mud. Water dripped from the jet-black locks and only the sky-blue eyes peered out from a mask of mire. 

"Frodo?" Pippin repeated, "what the . . ."

"Don't say a word," Frodo stopped him miserably. "I know."

"But how did you . . ."

"Pippin!" Frodo lifted a hand, sending a bow of droplets spraying onto the lawn. "Please."

Pressing his lips together, Pippin stared at his feet. "So . . ." he ventured finally, "you got the rose back?" 

"Yes," Frodo answered tersely, lifting the regained flowerpot for Pippin to see. "But it was the hardest trade ever."

"Was Lobelia such a hard task?" Pippin asked, feigning compassion. 

"Not Lobelia," Frodo said, and his face contorted with bad, bad memories, "the child." Shaking his head, Frodo looked at the rose and muttered under his breath, "This surely is the first present bought back with a frog."

"A . . ."

"Don't ask." 

In the meantime, Rosie and Margy had became aware of the strange meeting at the brook. They approached. Frodo instantly ducked his head, holding onto the flowerpot for dear life. 

"Don't pay attention to them," Pippin grumbled. "And don't tell them anything. They chatter like geese."

"Yes," Frodo said, slightly amused by the younger hobbit's pouting expression. Indeed the high voices of the lasses resembled those of geese. 

Cocking an eyebrow, Frodo began to brood. Geese . . . geese . . . now what did that remind him of? Then like a flash it hit him. 

"Goose!" he cried out, making Pippin jump an inch from the ground. Frodo's face went pale under the layer of mud. Heavens! He still had the bird over the fire! Without a further word he whirled around and spurted up the slope. 

Pippin was left behind, staring speechlessly after his cousin. Then he understood what soon would happen and his heart began to pound ferociously. After all the nightmares they had went through -- it would all be spoiled if Frodo reached the Hill before Sam was finished and out of the kitchen. Pippin wordlessly threw the freshly washed clothes at the lasses' feet, then he dashed away as fast as his legs could carry him.

***

The door almost shattered under the force of the knock, and Merry choked on the tea he was just sipping, the cup almost flying from his hands. 

"MERRY!" 

A small, devilish grin played around Merry's lips when he 

set the cup down, rose and walked to the locked door. 

"I'm taking it that my reputation is restored now? Does Rosie have her garments back?" 

Outside, he could hear Pippin gasping for breath. Goodness, he couldn't be _that_ hungry, now could he? Surely not hungry enough to run all the way from Bywater pool up to Bag End? 

"Merry, open up!" 

"I don't think I heard the magic word. Besides, if you want food, I don't think there is ..." 

A short stream of rather interesting, colourful metaphors carried inside the room on the young Took's clear, lilting voice. 

"Open the door NOW!" Then, after a final desperate hammering on the door, Pippin added: "Frodo is coming!" 

At that, a flurry of motion broke out at the front door of Bag End. Merry unlocked the door, Pippin bolted into the room and shut the door behind him, and Merry raced back into the kitchen to tell Sam, who had already heard Pippin's loud proclamation. 

The gardener started a perfectly choreographed dance of pans, copper tins and bowls, of spoons, knifes and herbs, of flour, milk and cups. Somehow, all of this had to be out of sight by the time Mr. Frodo returned. Just how, HOW was he going to manage this? 

"Where did you see him? When? Why is he coming now? He was busy the last time I saw him ... Pippin, what did YOU DO?" 

Merry's voice had risen to a crescendo which was insulting to any well-mannered hobbit ear and Sam ducked back into the cupboard. 

"ME?" Pippin shot back, incredulously. Small hands propped up on his hips, he glared at Merry, who stood beside the open fireplace. "Could we please remember who sent me down to the Cottons' home? And besides, if I hadn't been down there, you two never would have seen him coming!" 

"And would you remember why I sent you down there? I was in this ridiculous disguise for more than two hours, and now ... now that we had him out of reach long enough for Sam to prepare everything, you lead him back here. What did you say?" 

Pippin squared his shoulders defiantly. "Nothing." 

"Peregrin Took, the day on which you say nothing hasn't been invented yet." 

"You ..." 

"What did you SAY?! And think strawberry dessert. And custard. Think!" 

That last sentence had the desired success. Pippin blanched. If Merry hadn't known better, he could have sworn anxious tears were forming in the younger one's eyes at the thought of an already eaten dessert. 

"I ... I didn't tell him anything! He was just looking all dirty and muddy and kept talking about a frog and a lass and then I told him that he shouldn't mind Rose and Margy because they chattered like geese. Then he suddenly bolted up the hill." He halted and grinned at Merry, rather proud of himself. "You can be glad that I'm a faster runner than he is." 

Merry couldn't help but smile at the boyish innocence on his cousin's face. Then suddenly, he remembered something. "How far was he behind you?" 

"Oh, FAR," said Pippin, ready to boast. 

Merry peered around the curtains down Bagshot Row. "Oh, yes? Far?" He grabbed for Pippin's weskit and pulled him to the window. "Terribly far, isn't he?" 

Outside, just a few hurried steps away, was the nearing disaster. Frodo came up the hill, panting. The mud wasn't flying from his hair anymore, but it had dried in places and made him look as though he had aged a hundred years. His weskit, breeches and shirt, however, were still dripping wet. He had a flowerpot in his hands. In a death-grip, by the looks of it. His face was contorted in a mixture of lethal determination and utter panic. 

"What do we do now?!" Pippin screeched, letting go of the curtain. 

"Sam? SAM! He's HERE!" 

A soft "oomph" sounded from the kitchen. Merry looked at Pippin, who peered through the curtain, then at Frodo, then at the kitchen door. Together, they finally raced there, fearing the worst. 

The smiling, round face of Sam Gamgee greeted them. "All set." 

The kitchen looked perfect. Just the way it had been before Frodo had left it. But how ... 

"Sam, how ..." Merry started, but Sam interrupted him by pulling him out of the kitchen door. 

"I don' rightly think we have the time for a natter now, Mr. Merry. I will tell you later." 

"But ..." Pippin stared at the place where the bowl with custard had been standing, just before he had left. His eyes widened in shock. "Sam, where is everything?" 

"Later, Master Pippin, later!" 

He pulled the excited young Took with him, and they managed to leave through the back door just in time. 

Inside, they heard Frodo cry: "I'm coming, bird!" 

Merry looked at Sam. Sam looked at Pippin. Pippin looked at the kitchen window, from which the soft, hushing words towards the goose over the fire were coming. 

A smile spread over the fae, Tookish features. Widened into a grin. He could feel the beginnings of a hearty laughter bubbling up. He would never be able to stop it. 

And then, before he knew what was happening, two pairs of hands clamped over Pippin's mouth and held him down. 

***

Frodo placed the so-bitterly reclaimed flowerpot onto the table. Thick droplets of mud slid from his arms and fell onto the white tablecloth, spoiling it. 

A heavy sigh moved his chest. Birthdays. Who needed them, anyway? 

Maybe he should just forget the whole day, leave the bird to fly free and retreat into a nice, steaming bath for the rest of the day. 

Let the bird fly free? The mud must have oozed its way right from his ears into his brain. Like it would ever fly with all those apples and plums and mushrooms in its belly. 

Still, a bath sounded inviting. And after all, he couldn't welcome his guests looking the way he did, now could he? 

At the thought of the warm water, a smile spread over his features. Instantaneously, the dried mud cracked up and Frodo felt his face do strange things. What if he couldn't stop smiling now? What if he stayed like this forever? 

He tried to calm himself. To no avail. He needed help. Now. The cry rose from the depth of his soul: "SAM!" 

***

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

****

Chapter 8

(8/14)

***

Outside, the three conspirators were still lying in the lush grass. The fresh smell was invigorating. Pippin started to squirm against the firm hands holding him down. 

"Thmer'f wno need." He spoke defiantly from under the pressure of Sam's hand. 

"We both think there is, Pip," Merry whispered back. "We don't want everything to be discovered because of your laughter." 

"Hm, hm," came the muffled reply. "'M wnot lmghing, 'm I?" 

"No. But you would." 

"'Wbm't!" 

"Will you be quiet now?" Merry hissed. "You can't even shut up when there are four hands blocking your big mouth." 

They were so caught up in their little banter that they didn't realise a shadow had fallen over them right away. 

Only when Sam whimpered ever so softly, and Merry watched the usually so stout-hearted gardener turn even redder then his most treasured roses, did Merry look up. 

A skirt met his eyes. A bodice. And a _lace-trimmed_ apron. _Plus_ a bonnet. 

All nicely wrapped around the shapely form of ... 

"Miss Rosie!" Sam whispered, choked. 

"Well, lads. This is getting more and more interesting." 

Her face softened a bit when she took in the lowered lashes of Bag End's gardener and the fierce blush in his cheeks. 

"So you are in this, too, dear Sam?" 

If it was possible at all, Sam turn an ever darker shade of red at the word _dear_. 

Without missing a beat, Merry was the first to recover from the shock. He let go of Pippin and reached for Rosie Cotton's arms, pulling her to the ground right next to Sam. 

The sounds that reached his ears next were enough to make Pippin struggle for breath when a new fit of laughter seized him. A surprised squeak from Rosie, and a most charming whimper from Sam. Merry's hand pressed down tighter on his cousin's mouth. The youngest among them shook with laughter, so hard in fact, that they all could feel it. 

Rosie Cotton blinked. Pippin giggled. Sam blushed even harder. Merry tried to calm his hiccuping cousin without choking him. 

Then, suddenly, a most heartfelt cry of deep, deep anguish reached them and made Sam jolt up: 

"SAM!" 

***

After all the things that had happened on this fell day -- the Lobelia-Chasing, the Flower Trade, the Frog Hunt -- now finally was the moment when Frodo was at ends with his wits. He stood in the middle of his kitchen, dried mud crumbling from his best clothes, and knew he would lose the last poor remnant of his sanity any second. 

He was unable to move. He couldn't even bring himself to walk over to the bowl with pastry -- which would certainly taste uglier than rotten apples. Frodo felt the wish to simply resign in every fiber of his body. Everything was messed up! The meal wasn't ready, he looked like some foul creature directly out of Bilbo's tales and he didn't even dare have a look at the bird. He already had a clear vision of it diminished to a piece of black coal. 

That was how Sam found his master. Frodo heard the approaching footsteps and slowly turned around, facing his gardener, who nearly dropped his jaw at the sight presented to him. Frodo's face screwed up in deepest misery, sending more clumps raining onto the floorboards. Sam stared for another split second, but eventually he got a hold of himself and walked over to his master without saying a word. It was one of the many occasions in which Frodo learned to value Sam's discretion. 

"A trial is Mistress Lobelia and no mistake," the humble gardener said softly.

Frodo nodded wearily. "Yes. Sam, I . . ." but to his profound distress he found he didn't even know where to begin. Once again Sam helped him out so gently and effortlessly that Frodo didn't really notice how the burden was carefully taken from his shoulders. 

"Do you want me to help with the meal?" Sam asked, cautiously. "I know you wanted to cook it yourself, but..."

"Oh, Sam!" Frodo sighed and managed a crooked grin. "I doubt there is any meal at all. I'm afraid I spoiled the good food entirely. Even the mushrooms." He shook his head, sending a wistful glance to the oven. "You can rightly call me a fool for trying to cook such a meal. I never cooked anything nearly as great before. Oh, what indeed was I thinking." 

"I don't think it is that bad," Sam soothed him and walked over to the range. There he took up a spoon and dipped it into the pot with the soup. Frodo watched in horror, waiting for the inevitable cough of disgust.

"Well," Sam said, nodding contentedly, "this is quite fine, if I may say so."

"What?" Furrowing his brows until a steep line coursed up his forehead, Frodo went over to Sam and took his own spoonful of soup. Indeed! This wasn't in the least awful, it rather tasted surprisingly delicious. Frodo swallowed in wonder, watching as Sam opened the goose pot. A spicy scent of mushrooms and baked meat immediately began to fill the room and as Sam rose, he shook his head in wonder.

"I don't see no problem, Mr. Frodo," he said. "It seems quite well prepared."

It took Frodo another moment to grasp what was happening, and then he slowly shook his head. "Indeed!" he murmured. "How strange, I never would have thought . . ."

"But that is good, isn't it?" Sam interrupted him quickly. "Now you will be ready in time. And -- and you have taken the rose back from Mistress Lobelia."

"Yes," Frodo agreed. He hesitated and looked down to his mud-sprinkled weskit and once again he threatened to lose his confidence. "But look at me! Goodness, will I ever get these clothes clean again? Or my face? This mud clings to simply _everything_." Which reminded Frodo acutely of his uncomfortable state. But just as he was about to fall back into his pit of distress, a shy hand patted his shoulder and Frodo looked up to met the friendly blue eyes of his gardener.

"Why don't you go and have a bath, sir?" Sam offered. "I can prepare the table and see to that everything is set. You can change into other clothes and will be ready even before your guests arrive."

A grateful sigh crept across Frodo's features and at last the notion of surrender retreated from his tortured mind. Sam's presence alone gave Frodo the odd feeling that everything could be fine, after all. Already he felt himself relax and some of the numbing tension left his body. 

"A bath. That's a good thought, Sam," he said. He took one last look around the kitchen. "Maybe you should take the good porcelain? It's in the sideboard over there." 

"I know," Sam reassured him with a smile and turned back to the range. His hands were already busy with the pots and spoons when Frodo finally started for the kitchen's exit. 

"A bath . . ." he mumbled to himself, "soap. And a glass of Old Winyard. Yes, that would be good now." At the threshold, however, he halted once more and looked back over his shoulder.

"Will you be fine, Sam?" he asked. 

"Yes, sir," Sam returned from his place of working, "never mind about me. I will see it down quite promptly."

"Good." Frodo nodded, and then he added as an afterthought: "Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you wearing my apron?"

The pot's handle almost slipped from Sam's hand as his breath caught, his cheeks once more burning a brilliant red. 

"I . . . uhm . . ." he desperately fumbled for words, not looking at his master and gripping the handle very tight. "I . . . there was . . . garden work . . . and I needed the apron. For the garden work. Because of the dirt. I -- I'll wash it later, if you don't mind."

"Fine, fine," Frodo murmured, his thoughts already occupied with visions of a comfortable, easing bath. 

Considering that Sam was an awful liar, he really did a good job today. 

***

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

****

Chapter 9

(9/14)

***

Outside, Merry had finally succeeded in calming Pippin. When there came no more sound out of Bag End or from Pippin's mouth, Merry dared retrieve his hand. Letting out a long breath he sat back on the grass and momentarily closed his eyes. A little adventure per day was fine with him, but the last few hours had been decidedly too exciting. Even for his taste. 

"Well, this is the strangest day I ever came to see," Rosie said in wonder as she slowly stood up, brushing grass seeds from her skirt. 

"And you haven't seen even the half of it," Merry added darkly, and joined her. 

"I don't believe you took all this upon you just so that Frodo can have his birthday feast unspoiled." Rosie looked at Merry and he saw something new in her eyes, wonder, maybe. As for her words, he didn't really know what to say to that, so he just left it with a shrug.

"Really," Rosie muttered quietly, "I didn't think you could care so much for anything."

"He's our friend," Pippin said simply, also rising from the ground. 

"That much I understood," Rosie replied. 

"Then you also understand how important it is for Frodo to stay oblivious to all this?" Merry asked, new eagerness stressing his words. 

"I do," Rosie said firmly. She let her glance wander from Merry to Pippin and back again. Finally she heaved a deep sigh. "The strangest day and no question to that." She cast a friendly smile at Merry and now he finally knew what Sam saw in her. "All right, Meriadoc," she said, "I'll keep your venture a dead secret. " With a friendly wink she added: "And I will also not speak of your little charade."

A load as heavy as Ted Sandyman's great millstone slipped from Merry's heart. Impulsively, he took hold of Rosie's hands and smacked a hearty kiss on her fingers.

"Thank you, dearest, dearest Rosie. I just fell in love with you." 

"Meriadoc Brandybuck!" Rosie scolded, but although she blushed, she did smile as well. 

At that very instant, Sam appeared at the window, his friendly eyes shining with relief. Quickly he was joined by the waiting trio. 

"He didn't notice," Sam said and at least two tensed faces relaxed. Pippin let out a relieved puff of breath.

"Well, that means we did it well, after all," he said. When silence was his only answer he cast a quick glance at Merry, mild fear returning to his eyes. "Didn't we?"

Merry looked at him quite sternly. "I will call it a success when we all sit around that table and only then. I don't trust this day."

"Neither do I, " added Rosie, "nor will I ever believe I know any of you. Even Sam has surprised me today." She smiled warmly at the gardener, who once again tried to be a match for his gaffer's tomatoes, or so it seemed. Rosie crossed her arms in front of her chest, taking a close look at each of the three. "But I doubt. All I know is that Frodo could have worse friends than you. Indeed I believe you would go straight to the end of the world if he were up to it." 

This time the whole trio blushed in union. Rosie cast swift glance at Bag End's round door and smiled. "I also doubt he would be aware of his followers until you step on his large feet." This, of course, made Pippin chuckle. Which maybe he shouldn't have done.

"As for you, Master Pippin," Rosie said and retrieved a large, white handkerchief. Without hesitation she wetted it with her tongue, then took a good grip on Pippin's chin, sweeping the broad trail of soap from his cheek. Pippin made a face and tried to escape, but Rosie wouldn't let him go until she was satisfied with his outlook. "There." She nodded and put her handkerchief away. With that, she took one step back and mustered the youngest of the company. "We two still have a bargain, I hope you remember." 

"What!" Pippin exclaimed, which earned him a hard nudge in the shoulder. 

"You promised to do my laundry," Rosie insisted.

"But I thought . . ." Pippin stammered, then turned to Merry for support.

"You heard her," Merry said, his eyes sparkling despite of the dry tone in his voice. "Don't you agree, Sam?"

The gardener looked down at his hands, strictly avoiding eye contact with Rosie. Nevertheless he answered: "A promise is a promise, I'd say."

"Sam?" Pippin wailed in disbelief. "Even you?" 

Merry smiled mildly at his younger cousin and comradely squeezed his shoulder. "It could have been worse, cousin."

"That's what you say," Pippin murmured, gloomily. "This was the last time I make a proposal, I swear."

Rosie's clear laughter did nothing to brighten his features. "You better write this down, so we can all remind you of it," she teased. Then she adjusted her bonnet (which made Merry inevitably flinch) and smoothed her apron. "I guess this is the right time to say goodbye. I hope the rest of your little birthday conspiracy will work well." 

"So do we," Merry assured her, "believe me, so do we." He quickly took Pippin by the arm and shoved him forward. The young Took glared at him, but Merry went on, unimpressed. "Why don't you see Miss Rosie to the gate?" he proposed, gaining a deadly glance from his cousin. "You can talk about the details of your bargain on the way."

"Merry, I swear . . ." Pippin began, but Merry cut him short with a broad grin. 

"Shhh, Pip, swearing is not nice."

Pressing his lips together in a firm, white line, Pippin turned his back on Merry and walked over to Rosie. He still had the wits to offer her his arm and like this he guided her down the properly trimmed lawn.

Merry looked after them and secretly decided that this was enough punishment for a little Took. Smiling, he turned towards Sam.

"All's ending well, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes," replied Sam, honest gladness mirrored on his face, "very well."

With a relieved sigh, Merry propped his arm on the sill and confidently leaned on it. "Sam? Please make sure there'll be a good plate full of your dessert left for Pippin."

He didn't notice Sam's concerned glance in Pippin's and Rosie's direction.

***

He had only half an hour left. He knew he could do it. The bath had revitalised him properly, and the Old Winyard had done its own to help restore his lost faith in himself.

Maybe he wasn't the best cook on Hobbiton. But whatever he was, he surely wasn't the worst, either.

Frodo stood on tiptoes to reach for the chandelier. Bits of dust snowed down on him and he shook his head. No. He wouldn't take this as a sign to stop the whole party from unfolding itself.

He would dish up a good dinner. This day had been hard enough, and he was not going to stop now.

Outside, he heard Sam rummaging through the wood to find the perfect logs for the open fireplace.

The sun had sunk low by now, and last deep red rays were lazily falling into the open window. The fresh scent of autumn surged in, and Frodo breathed deeply, letting his eyes slip shut for only a few moments. This was all he needed. Fresh air, sunlight, a good meal and friends.

Nothing could go wrong anymore.

He only had to fill the pastry.

Frodo eyed the entrance to the kitchen warily. Nothing?

While strolling hesitantly, almost fearfully into the kitchen, he knocked on the wooden frame. Three times.

***

TBC

__

Thank you for the feedback, folks, it is most lovingly cherished.

And: Talking Hawk? This is a no-slash story, indeed.

And please don't hit Pippin anymore, or I shall have to come over and defend him. You wouldn't want that, do you? :o)


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

(10/14)

***

"Oh, Master Pippin, you're back already?" Sam announced when he saw the young Took slinking up the Hill. 

"I don't know what you see in her, honestly," Pippin exclaimed, emphatically. Sam muttered something unintelligible under his breath and stooped low to retrieve some more logs and hide his fierce blush.

"If she wasn't a lass, I'd say she has beaten me. And Sam ..." Pippin narrowed his eyes and stepped next to the gardener. "If you ever tell her I said this, or in fact, if you ever tell anyone, I will have to ask Gandalf to turn you into a nice, spotty toad."

Sam blanched, a surprising contrast to his formerly red cheeks. "I swear, Master Pippin, I will not utter a word." 

Pippin stared at him a little longer, then he nodded. "Good. And please don't forget it. Remember, Gandalf is a good friend to all the Tooks ..."

"Oh, Peregrin Took, stop being so melodramatic. You know Gandalf would never do anything like that ... unless I asked, him, of course." Merry grinned broadly at his cousin.

Then he took in the worried features of Bag End's gardener, and nudged Pippin lightly in the shoulder. "Stop scaring poor Samwise like that. He's the reason behind the whole conspiracy, after all."

Pippin grinned at Sam, who smiled warily back at him. Then suddenly, as though his words had only now registered in his mind, Merry turned to face Sam.

"Wait a moment. _YOU_ are the reason behind this. That means _YOU_ are responsible for me wearing skirts?" Merry's eyebrows knitted together dangerously.

"And for me washing lasses' skirts?" added Pippin.

Sam gulped. Visibly. Then he muttered softly: "It was only for Mr. Frodo's birthday." He hugged the bundle of logs closer to his body, as if it could protect him from the combined wrath of Brandybuck and Took.

He didn't fear any yelling, or Pippin actually speaking to Gandalf. But he feared, more than anything, the glint in both of the young lads' eyes.

"There was something Miss Rosie said when I was _finally_ done washing her skirts." Pippin cast a sideways glance at Merry, silently reproaching his cousin for creating so many grass stains on the skirt.

A feeling of dread crept up Samwise Gamgee's spine. "Sh-she did?"

"She told me to give you something."

"Me?!" There was no use in trying to keep water form rushing down a stream. Sam blushed a nice, fiery red.

"Yes, indeed. Although, why she wanted to give it to you, and not to somebody else, I don't understand." The glint in Pippin's eyes grew.

Sam shuddered.

"Well, give it to him, then," urged Merry, seriously curious as to what his cousin was up to.

"This isn't for your ears to hear, Meriadoc." He motioned for Sam to come closer. "This is for Sam alone."

"Well, if it's so important," Merry huffed indignantly.

"It is," Pippin reassured. "Come closer, Sam. I don't bite."

Sam raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Warily still, he walked a step closer.

He could barely give as much as a surprised yelp when Pippin reached for his chin with one hand. The young Took scrunched up his face, turned Sam lightly and then placed a huge kiss on the gardener's cheek.

"Miss Rosie wishes you a nice party, Sam."

Sam dropped his logs, pulled his sleeves over his hands and scrubbed almost violently at the place where Pippin's sloppy kiss had landed.

This, of course, sent Pippin sprawling on the grass, holding his stomach from laughing so hard. Merry soon joined him.

And poor Samwise Gamgee, humiliated to the tips of his _very_ pink ears, fled into Bag End's back door, only to come back and retrieve the logs.

Then the door fell shut, and he wondered if any of those two had deserved Mr. Frodo's dinner.

***

Holding onto the logs for dear life, Sam hurried into Bag End's cozy dining room. There he quickly unloaded them into the open fire place, trying to concentrate strictly on his work and _not_ on what had just happened. Indeed he was so mesmerized by stacking wood that he didn't hear the approaching steps and so nearly screamed when someone dropped a hand on his shoulder. 

"Sam, it's me," Frodo said quickly, surprised by the other's reaction .

"Oh, Mr. Frodo . . ." Sam stammered, "you . . . are you finished with your bath?"

"As you can see," Frodo said with a smile, indicating his fresh clothes. "No mud, no flour," he added, "and I'd prefer it to stay this way for the rest of the evening."

Sam nodded numbly. 

"So is everything fine with the table?" Frodo asked.

"Yes, all's set," Sam replied and forced himself to look up. '_Get a hold on yourself, Sam Gamgee_,' he told himself. '_You won't spoil the whole thing, now, will you?_'

"Then everything is prepared," Frodo sighed, "at last."

"It is," Sam assured him, thinking of his great-grandmother's recipe for delicious custard. "I suppose I'll go and clean my gardening tools then."

"But that surely can wait until tomorrow," Frodo remarked, "lest you won't be in time for our dinner."

Sam raised both eyebrows in surprise. "But I thought it was a birthday meal for you and your friends only?"

"And what makes you think that this excludes you?" Frodo asked with a frown.

The look in the humble gardener's eyes was heart-touching. "You mean . . ."

"Oh Sam," Frodo shook his head with a little laugh and gently squeezed the other's shoulder, "of course you are welcomed to dine with us. I had counted you to my guest list all along. That is, if you are brave enough to try what I cooked."

He risked a glance at the large table loaded with bowls and dishes. Some candles stood nicely between all the food and somehow Sam had managed to add a little bunch of flowers. 

"Well, at least it looks nice," Frodo said carefully. 

"So it does," Sam agreed and for a moment both hobbits stared quietly at the set table. Then Frodo tilted his chin and clapped his hands soundly. "So let's get it over and done with," he announced, looking around with freshly fueled confidence. "What about our guests? I thought I heard someone laughing in the garden. I suppose Merry and Pippin are already here?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, they are," Sam answered quietly, denying the urge to wipe at his cheek once more. 

"I wonder what they were up to today," Frodo mused. "At least Pippin was behaving rather queer." He didn't notice Sam's eyes widening at his idle words but instead went on: "I met him near the Cottons' home, you know. It's strange but . . . it looked to me as if he was doing someone's laundry. But that cannot be, can it?"

At this, Sam had to lower his head quickly and bite his lip to keep from chuckling. Frodo didn't notice, though. 

"I only hope they didn't get anyone into serious trouble," Frodo said and eventually made up his mind to get to the last stage of his birthday adventure. 

"Come on, let's see them in, what do you say?" he proposed and no sooner said than done, he left the dining room by the round passageway. 

Sam merely nodded, actually not being in any condition to say anything. Still fighting the fits of laughter, he went after his master. In between all the excitement of realising that he was invited and keeping up their little charade, Sam hadn't notice the pastry at the far end of the table. He also didn't realise that Mr. Frodo must have filled said pastry by himself. 

***

__

TBC

Right. Folks? This is supposed to be a fun story. And Murron and I (please don't forget that we wrote this TOGETHER, so please give her credit as well) are not happy to see people getting into fights. Settle this, please.

Thank you.


	11. Chapter 11

****

Chapter 11

(11/14)

***

When Frodo and Sam reached the door, Merry and Pippin already stood on the welcoming doormat. Merry was trying in vain to bring some order into his younger cousin's clothing when the door opened before them. 

"I'm surprised to see you on time, dear cousins," Frodo greeted them.

"Oh, we always are," Merry said, performing an elegant little bow. 

"If our date is with food, that is," Pippin added merrily and seconded Merry's bow, though he couldn't carry it out quite as gracefully. 

"I thought as much." Frodo grinned. "And I dare say you won't regret coming here. There are some tasty delicacies waiting for you."

"Like salty soup and burned bird, if it had been up to him," Pippin whispered as Frodo turned to go on inside. For this, the young Took was promptly rewarded with a hard nudge of Merry's pointed elbow. 

"Take care of your mouth, Pippin Took," Merry warned him in a low voice. 

"Feed me and make my mouth busy with chewing and that won't be any trouble at all," Pippin advised him with a broad smile. They went inside and hung their jackets on the hallstand. Then, before they entered the dining room, they stopped momentarily beside Sam. Pippin gave the gardener a cheerful glance and the brightest smile he had in his repertoire.

"Sam," Pippin asked innocently, "is everything all right with you?"

"Yes," Merry added with interest, "you look kind of flushed, don't you think, Pip?"

"Aye, quite so." Pippin grinned.

Sam quickly lowered his eyes, staring intently at his toes. Frodo, however, seemed to be oblivious to what was going on. 

"Come on, you three," he called from the passageway, "it's been a long day and I think I don't think I've never been this hungry before."

Since they all agreed with this, no more precious time was wasted and finally the birthday feast at Bag End began. 

***

Hobbits liked food. It was a statement as true and unwavering as 'the sun rises in the east.' But what was even more welcome to their souls was good food, and on this evening there was plenty of it. This special birthday was going to be branded in their minds for many reasons, but the one memory standing out would be that of the fabulous dishes they had been served that night. 

"Oh my . . ." Pippin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, "that was the best feast ever." Leisurely, he licked the gravy from his fingers, savoring every droplet. 

"Aye . . ." Merry agreed from his seat. For once in his lifetime he was too full and lazy to be any more eloquent. 

"Those mushroom were sheer poetry." Pippin sighed. '_Mentioning it,_' he thought and opened his eyes to look if any goose bits or delicious filling were left. 

"Well, well." Frodo nodded and patted his belly. After the first plate of goose and taters he had unbuttoned his weskit for reasons of comfort. "I must say that I surprised myself. Honestly, I didn't think it would work so well."

Silence was his only answer, but Frodo was too content to notice anything queer. 

"After all the chaos today, I doubted we would ever come to sit here," he went on, dreamily. "Really, at times I considered locking myself up in the bedroom until next spring. And the frog was not even the oddest thing about it all." During the course he had given his guests full account of his flower trade, which had made the trio laugh even harder than Frodo had expected. There still would be a little grin tugging at the corners of Pippin's mouth whenever the word 'frog' was mentioned. 

"That S.B. incident," said Frodo and shook his head, "that was most queer."

Merry warily opened his eyes and looked over at his cousin. Sam began to smooth the tablecloth in front of him. Only Pippin seemed unaware of the danger.

"Queer to what extent, cousin?" he asked. 

"Well, I can't rightly say," Frodo admitted. "There was something about the way she moved. Something . . . unwomanly, I'd say."

Next to Pippin, Merry closed his hand around his mug of ale. His knuckles turned strangely white. 

"But that shouldn't be a surprise, should it?" Frodo said eventually, and a smile sneaked upon his features. "Lobelia never was the most graceful among all the hobbit maidens." An amused chuckle escaped his lips as he reached out for his mug. "You should have seen her! Stomping like some kind of troll and chirping like a hoarse bird. What a sight. Oh, you really should have seen her." Recalling the pictures, Frodo laughed into his beer, while Sam had turned aside to hide his expression from the company. Merry, who sat opposite to Frodo, had gone white in the face as well. 

"You know, Frodo," Pippin said, struggling to keep his face straight and voice steady, "some folks just don't have a lot of grace in them."

The next moment a muffled thud could be heard from beneath the table top. Pippin twitched on his chair and for no visible reasons screwed up his face in pain. 

"But Lobelia or no Lobelia, at least we have a happy end," stated Frodo, who by now had downed his ale. "And now I think it is time for the presents." He nodded to himself, neither noticing the reproachful look Pippin gave Merry nor the sinister black look Merry returned. Instead Frodo went over to the mantelpiece and picked up three presents, nicely wrapped in gold-brown paper. The first one was meant for Sam, who almost dropped it in surprise. As he took away the paper, Sam held in his hands a neat little bag filled with seeds. 

"Gandalf brought them on his visit this summer," Frodo explained. "I don't know what the flowers will look like, but he told me they're really beautiful. If they are tended carefully."

"Oh, they will be, Mr. Frodo," Sam said with bright, shining eyes. "Surely, they will. Thank you sir!"

"And these are for Merry and Pippin," Frodo said, handing them the remaining two bundles. "I hope you don't mind that you both get the same. But it seemed to me both of you might like it."

Curiously, Merry unwrapped his present. But as the content was revealed to him, he thought his heart skipped a beat. The bundle slid out of his hands and dropped into his lap. In the midst of the paper lay something shining white and fluffy resembling very much a certain piece of clothing. _Womanly_ clothing.

'_No, that can't be_ . . .' Merry winced. Ever so slowly, he reached out his hand and lifted the white piece of cloth out of its wrapping. Then, as he held it in midair, he saw what it really was. Frodo had given him a white handkerchief with the initials M.B. stitched in one corner. And, furthermore, there was, as Merry now was able to see, a filled bag of Pipeweed what looked to be the finest blend of Longbottom leaf. But although the true nature of the present was revealed, Merry's heart still thrummed fast against his chest and his hand shook a little. That was the moment his friends noticed his dismayed state. 

"Merry? Is something wrong?" Frodo asked and concern showed on his face. "Don't you like your present?"

"I think he has mistaken it for something else," Pippin said with a grin.

"Mistaken?" Frodo echoed and looked questioningly at his Brandybuck cousin. Merry, in the meantime, had enfolded the handkerchief in his hand and stared at it, still upset. 

"I . . . I thought it was . . ." he mumbled, then remembered himself and returned Frodo's gaze as steady as he could. "Oh, never mind. Thank you, cousin." He actually managed a weak smile. 

"Yes, thank you, Frodo," Pippin joined, then he turned towards Merry and waved his own present in front of his cousin's nose. "Look, mine's blue. A real good choice our cousin Frodo made. And thank goodness it doesn't have frills, eh, Merry?"

Merry's head snapped up and the glare of his bright blue eyes bore directly into Pippin. A glare meant to strike the impetuous Took down with thundering force, actually. Needless to say it was completely ineffectual.

"Why should I give you something with frills?" Frodo questioned, astounded. 

"Never mind," Merry fairly growled, while still scowling at his younger cousin, who obviously was having a great time. 

"Shouldn't we go on to the dessert?" Sam threw in hurriedly, eager to prevent the upcoming catastrophe. He succeeded. 

"Dessert!" Pippin yelped with delight and clapped his hands. 

"All right," Frodo laughed, the matter of frills fortunately forgotten, "we better serve the sweets before our Master Pippin will starts dancing upon the table." The master of Bag End shoved his chair back and stood up. 

"Sam, would you please be so kind as to cut the pastry? I'll go and get the dessert plates." With that he turned and walked over to the cupboard. 

At that point, many things happened at the same time. Frodo approached the cupboard, while Sam paled and gripped the table with terror in his eyes. Merry jumped up as he saw the gardener's reaction and whirled around towards Pippin, who stared at him with large eyes. Intuitively understanding Sam's dilemma, the young Brandybuck soundlessly formed the word 'pots' with his lips and Pippin, who sat closer to the cupboard, bolted out of his seat. Frodo's hand already lay on the cupboard's knob, when his cousin got into his way and pressed his back defensively against the shelf.

"Frodo," Pippin panted, trying to smile at the thoroughly surprised hobbit in front of him. "Uhm . . . let me do this, aye? It's your birthday, you know, a-and you have already done so much for us." 

"Right then," Frodo said slowly after he had eyed his younger cousin, rather puzzled. "Thank you."

Over Frodo's shoulder, Pippin saw the remaining two hobbits relax. Merry fell back in his chair and Sam exhaled a deep, deep breath. Then the gardener reached for a knife and began to cut the pastry into fine slices. 

After rummaging the cupboard for a short while, Pippin came back with a pile of plates and distributed them to the four seats at the table. With his task fulfilled, the young Took quickly sat down and held his plate out for his portion. Sam mercifully gave the lad the first slice and soon everyone had a nice piece of pastry on his plate. That is, all but Frodo. He decided to have a bit of the strawberry pudding instead. Looking forward to the first, sweet bite, they all pushed their spoons (or forks) into the dessert before them. Quickly did the first taste of pastry and pudding disappear into the hobbits' mouths. What followed was silence. Then Sam swallowed hard and Merry and Pippin simultaneously reached for their napkins. 

Frodo already finished his third spoonful of pudding before he looked contentedly at his guests. 

"How do you like the pastry?" he asked. "I improved it with some more sugar just before you arrived."

Merry suspiciously cast a sideways glance at Sam, who sadly pointed at the salt cellar that stood on the table. Merry pressed his lips together and tried to look not too sorry. He knew that Frodo 'had not quite a gift for cooking.' But that his cousin even mixed up salt and sugar . . . 

'_Well,_' Merry thought, '_they're both white, so . . ._' But he was really sorry for the good pastry. 

"You wouldn't believe how glad I am that everything worked out so fine," Frodo said, spooning up his pudding. "But it seems like I'm not so bad a cook after all. Indeed, I'm beginning to think that I should like to cook for you more often."

And while Frodo again concentrated fully on his wonderful strawberry pudding, three pairs of unbelieving eyes stared at each other in terrified shock.

***

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

****

Chapter 12

(12/14)

Finally all the bowls and plates and pots were emptied with not so much as a bread crumb left. The '_tasty pastry'_ -- as Pippin would refer to it from this day on -- had disappeared under the table. And it was a good thing that Sam had chosen the good tablecloth, because it was large and long and hid a lot. 

"I swear I won't eat another bite for a good, good while," Merry announced, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his arms. 

"And I swear I won't eat another bite before tomorrow morning at least," Pippin added and huddled up in his seat. He was ready to shuffle away into Frodo's cozy little living room and curl up on the sofa to have a little nap. Maybe Frodo could tell them a story before they all went to sleep. 

"Yes, yes," Frodo said, as slow and placid as his two cousins. "The only bad thing is the cleaning up. It's a shame that a good meal is almost always connected with washing dishes."

"Well, I'm too round and heavy to move right now," Merry declared, "and I don't think any physical work will do at all."

"But someone will have to," Frodo sighed, "or we can do it all together."

"Master Pippin could do it," a shy suggestions came from the other side of the table. Three heads turned towards Sam in unified surprise. The gardener blushed a little, but nonetheless carried on. 

"Well, since you told me you watched him doing laundry, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, "I thought maybe Master Pippin would have grown a liking for washing things."

Pippin opened his mouth for an anxious protest, but Frodo was quicker.

"Yes, Pippin, as we mention it," Frodo asked curiously, "why were you doing laundry today?"

"I . . ." Pippin began, then looked at Merry. But there was no support from this corner, only a silent warning to not let out their secret.

"I . . ." Pippin directed his glance towards Sam, but in the gardener's eyes he could read nothing at all. So finally Pippin lowered his head and mumbled in defeat: "I have grown a liking for washing things."

"You have?" Frodo asked, secretly deciding he would never be able to see into his young cousin.

"Aye."

"So you will do the washing up?" Frodo asked. 

Pippin lifted his head and looked pleadingly at Merry. "Yes," the young Took said miserably, "you don't have to do it. It's your birthday, after all." His green eyes turned pleading again. "But maybe someone could help me?" 

"I'm afraid I'll have to bring in the flowers I have not planted today," Sam apologised. 

"Yes, you better do that," Frodo agreed, "it would be a shame to expose them to the chill. Merry and I can have our pipes in the living room and you two can join us there later?" Sam nodded and all three elder hobbits stood up, with Frodo already going for his pipe on the mantelpiece. 

Pippin also rose, looking at each of them with begging eyes. "But . . . but . . I . . ."

"Be a good lad, Pippin," Merry said, smiling, and retrieved his own pipe. "I'll come later and help you. Just let me have a pipe first." But while he spoke he patted the Pipeweed bag Frodo had gifted him and Pippin knew it would be a long and leisurely enjoyed pipe. A pipe that could well be smoked until all the dishes and forks and spoons lay shiny and cleaned in the shelves again. 

"Oh, and Pippin?" Merry said. "Don't forget the soap."

***

The sound of water splashing came dubiously loud from the kitchen. While Merry, his legs comfortably stretched out and his hand gently curled around his pipe, sat in the big armchair in front of the open fireplace in the big living room, Frodo glanced warily into the direction of the sounds. He didn't seem quite as at ease with the situation as Merry was.

"Merry, are you sure this was a good idea? Maybe we really should go and help him?" Inwardly, he already feared his best porcelain diminishing into a pile of remains.

Merry lazily watched the smoke undulate and disappear into the room, and just winked at his older cousin. "Leave him for a while. It'll do him good."

"But will it do _me_ good, I wonder?" Frodo murmured.

Merry chuckled softly. "Have a little faith in your family and friends, dear cousin."

Frodo raised an eyebrow, but decided to not reply anything.

Yet he flinched when another clatter sounded from the kitchen. "Merry, I can't say that this puts me at ease. You know Peregrin's habit of breaking things."

"Frodo!" Merry interrupted him. "Hush now, just for a moment. Enjoy the night and the quiet." As if to mock his words, the next loud noise emitted from the kitchen. "That meal was remarkable, don't you think?" Merry continued as though he had never heard a thing.

***

This could not be happening. Pippin decided that this had to be a bad dream, and he would soon be woken by the wonderful smell of fried tomatoes, eggs and nice, crispy bacon.

Still, why he dreamed up such a wonderful evening with such a terrible ending was beyond his comprehension.

The plates were clean, although many of them had been in great peril in the progress of becoming clean. More than once he had almost dropped the slippery porcelain. Now, there shouldn't be all that much left, he realised with a relieved sigh.

Until he looked up.

There was flatware and bowls, cups and glasses, pans and pots. All waiting for him.

He would _never_ make it until they had finished their pipes. And he would miss Frodo's stories. And the tea. And the Old Winyard.

He let out a most pitiful sigh. This was not how this evening was supposed to end. Or this dream. Or anything. Not even a story.

When he looked up at the pile of dishes again, he beheld a shy, round face, hair slightly ruffled from the strong breeze outside. "Begging your pardon, sir," Samwise Gamgee said, his face mirroring the pity he saw on Pippin's features. "But maybe this'll be back in the shelves quicker if we do that bit of work together?"

Pippin narrowed his eyes. He had learned a lot about Bag End's gardener during this day. And there was more to this hobbit than met the eye. But upon looking into Sam's kind face, he knew that he had no more shenanigans to fear.

"All's well that ends well, ain't it, Master Pippin?" Sam asked when he reached for one of the big pots. Soon the pile of dishes grew smaller and smaller under the practised hands, and much faster than Pippin would have thought possible.

Pippin nodded, his smile finally back in place. "Aye, Sam. It is."

***

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

__

(13/14)

***

The window of the hole was wide open and a light breeze brought in the smells of the cool autumn night. Merry closed his eyes, letting his mind wander over the lake down there, listening to the faint noises of the sea of grass that was Hobbiton. This was how it was supposed to be. A wonderful dinner (with small exceptions) a good pipe, hopefully, soon some of the Old Winyard and, most of all, friends. 

However, he was disturbed in his thoughts when he heard weary feet stepping into the living room, and a small grunt of the chair, when a certain young hobbit with a very well-fed belly dropped into it.

"There, see?" said Merry, pulling on his pipe and opening his eyes to look at Frodo. "I told you he would do it quite nicely." He smiled innocently at his cousin, who shot him a positively lethal glance.

But enough was enough. This was going to end a pleasant night, Merry decided, suddenly feeling a small amount of pity for his cousin. He gave Pippin his pipe, and offered the younger one some of his new pipeweed. Soon, all three hobbits were smoking in comfortable silence. The fire began to burn more quietly and the first, incandescent log sank into the heat with a sigh, causing crackling sparks to rise and go out like tiny falling stars in the dimly lit room.

"What do you say we open one of the bottles of .. . ."

"Old Winyard?" Pippin burst out, eager hope in his voice. Merry shot him a wry glance. "That is, if you want to, of course," the young Took back-pedalled slightly.

Frodo smiled and rose from the comfortable chair. On his way down one of the smials leading to the cellar, he beheld Sam still standing in the kitchen, stocking the shelves anew. 

Frodo entered the cool room and was greeted with the typical smell of a wine cellar. He retrieved a bottle he had reserved for a special occasion and then made his way back to the living room. In front of the kitchen door, he halted. Sam sat on the slim bench next to the table, staring into the fire.

"Sam?" he questioned, peering around the door frame.

The gardener jumped up. "Yes, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I was just resting a little after ..."

Frodo held up a hand to stop the apology, which seemed grossly uncalled for to him. "I can see that." Sam looked at him, unhappy at being caught. "And you have done your fair share of work today. Especially with all those dishes Master Peregrin surely would have managed to drop."

Sam Gamgee blushed. "I almost did naught, Mr. Frodo, Master Pippin has ..."

"Has washed dishes the last time at Bilbo's 111th birthday party. I am glad you came to help. I feared the worst for my good porcelain."

The gardener gave a little lopsided smile. "It would have been a shame. It's such pretty porcelain."

"Yes, indeed."

There was a moment of silence. The fire in the hearth crackled and gave the only light in the kitchen.

"Why are you not coming into the living room, Sam?" Frodo asked while he went in search of the wine glasses.

"Mr. Frodo, sir! I can't do that, begging your pardon."

"Well, why not?" Frodo queried, looking rather surprised at the gardener's answer. "I invited you as a guest to my birthday party. And that isn't quite over yet, if I interpret those two thirsty faces in there correctly."

Sam hung his head. "You really oughtn't be doing this, Mr. Frodo," he said softly. "I know my place. And it is not among your guests."

Frodo set the bottle and the glasses onto the table and pulled Sam into the brightest spot in front of the fire. "Yes, dear Sam. It is. Today more than ever." His eyes shone brightly in the flickering firelight. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks. But his face showed determination not to let the matter drop. "This is a party for my friends. And you are my friend, are you not?"

"Yes, sir," Sam answered, enthusiastically. "At least I hope I am, sir."

Frodo's features shaped into a winning smile. "Well, then stop hiding in here and come along."

***

"It was a nice evening, don't you think?" Merry said, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. "That Sam is a wizard at plots, he certainly is." But there was no answer from Pippin, no agreement, not even a sound. Sudden concern welled up in Merry and he wondered if his cousin was still angry because of the whole washing affair. Had Merry gone too far with his teasing? With a touch of uneasiness, Merry let his pipe sink down. He shifted slightly in his chair and cast an apprehensive look to where his cousin had sat down earlier. The sight he beheld made Merry smile and immediately freed him of his bad conscience.

In Frodo's great armchair -- an heirloom of Bilbo's great-grandfather -- lay little Pippin Took, curled up in the cushions. His tousled hair wriggled over his pointed ears and his mouth was slightly open. Right that moment a little snore escaped the half-opened lips and Pippin wiggled comfortably in his sleep. Merry had to bite his tongue to stifle a chuckle. Forgotten were all the troubles he had faced during the day. Even if Pippin had made him wear those skirts at Hobbiton's Fair Day, Merry would have remembered none of it by now. Or at least, he wouldn't have cared, simply because it was impossible to not forgive Peregrin Took. Laying his pipe aside, Merry rose from his chair and walked over to the sofa where a blanket lay neatly folded in one corner. With said blanket in his hand, Merry returned to Pippin and knelt down beside the sleeping hobbit. Carefully, so as not to waken the other, Merry wrapped the blanket around his cousin. He had tugged the blanket safely under Pippin's chin when Sam and Frodo re-entered the living room. The master of Bag End went over to a low table, placing the bottle and glasses on it. Then something curious happened. Merry, who had thought Pippin fast asleep, watched how the little Took shifted. First, one eye opened, slowly, then the second. Pippin blinked, looked over to Frodo, and suddenly jolted up in his seat. 

"Wine!" he cheered and there was not the smallest sign of sleepiness in his eyes. Merry, at his side, struggled for balance, but was toppled to the floor by surprise and Pippin's rash movement. There the overwhelmed Brandybuck remained, laughing until tears coursed down his cheeks. Finally he was helped up by Sam, and Frodo handed him a glass of wine, which quieted him, at least for a while.

Some time later, the echoes of sprightly chatter and tinkling glasses drifted down the smials. The living room with its friendly crackling fire was filled with the sound of voices, one deep and almost mature, one high, almost tweenager-like, and two others, talking like old friends. And as a little more time went by, a little tune was begun and now the voices carried on the melody: two tenors, one baritone and a bass, rising up in song.

Forgotten was the toil of the day, forgotten the frog and the fear and Lobelia.

Just then, in the middle of perfect serenity and peace, there was a tremendous knock on the door. "Frodo! _Frodo Baggins_!"

Sam flinched. Merry choked on his sip of wine, almost spraying droplets of it over the beautiful carpet. Frodo nearly dropped his glass. Pippin gave a terrified squeak.

"My dear hobbits," Frodo said, looking at the other three in the room with wide, pleading blue eyes. "Please tell me that I am not hearing what I'm hearing.

"Erm ..." began Merry.

"Well ..." offered Pippin.

"Hear?" Sam suddenly piped up. The banging on the door was enough the make it rattle in its hinges and the familiar voice was as shrill as ever. "I don't know about you, Mr. Frodo, but I for my part don't hear naught. Do you?"

Three pairs of eyes looked at him, astonished, while Sam comfortably leaned back and sipped at his wine, as though there was nothing but the night breeze to be heard outside.

"Erm ..." Frodo began.

"Well ..." Merry offered.

"Uh ... you're right." Pippin, who had had his share of the gardener's special sense of humour today, leaned back as well. "I agree with good old Samwise. I don't hear a thing. Maybe a mockingbird outside?"

This time, it was Frodo's turn to choke on his wine, not from shock, though, but from laughter.

"A ... mockingbird?!"

Sam grinned. Pippin and Frodo laughed so hard that they almost fell off their chairs. Merry shook his head in disbelief and then joined them.

And outside, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins trudged away, finally understanding that she had lost. 

Today.

But there was always tomorrow.

__

Finis

See the appendix to find out what Bilbo's cookbook said.


	14. Appendix

__

What Bilbo's Cookbook said...

****

Starters:

Pumpkin-Soup

(_penned by Murron_)

A two pound pumpkin (_or: _1 ¼ pound mashed pumpkin) should fill four Pippins. 

For the soup you need:

2 ounces (50g) butter 

1 tbs brown sugar

½ pint milk

½ tbs ground macis (nutmeg blossom)

some fresh grind nutmeg

a pinch of clove powder

salt

freshly ground white pepper

Peel the pumpkin, remove fibres and seeds. Cut the pumpkin flesh into small cubes. 

Melt the butter in a pot, stir in the pumpkin cubes and let it sauté on medium temperature 

Sprinkle the sugar over it and let it melt, then slowly pour in the milk 

Season the soup with macis, nutmeg, clover, salt and pepper. Bring it to the boil and let it simmer on medium temperature for about 20 min. 

You can purée the soup in a mixer, or you can purée it directly in the pot with a hand-held blender. Afterwards, let the soup boil for a second time, then you may once more season the soup any way you like. Serve the pumpkin soup hot, et voilà. 

__

Suggestion: Add some sunflower seeds to the finished soup. Looks fine and tastes good.

**__**

Main course: 

Goose 

(Recipe by: eretria)

A ten to twelve pound goose should yield about 4-6 servings, depending on the hobbit you invite. :o) Serve this with steamed red cabbage (add some apples for better taste) and _sugar-browned potatoes or bread-dumplings_. 

10 to 12 pound young goose, prepared for cooking 

3-4 tart apples, peeled, cored and quartered 

1 – 3 hand-full's of prunes, pitted and halved 

1-3 hand-full's of mushrooms, cleaned and halved

2-3 twigs of mugwort

salt

pepper

Wash the goose inside and out with hot water. Dry carefully. Rub the cavity with salt, pepper and mugwort. Rub the outside with a little pepper as well. Toss together the apples, mushrooms and prunes. Stuff the goose. Seal with either skewers or tooth-picks, or simply sew closed. Place the goose breast up on rack in roasting pan. Roast in 425°F (225°C). oven for 30 minutes. Turn heat down to 350°F (180°C). Sprinkle the outside of the goose with a little salt water.

Sprinkle the outside of the goose with salt water (2 tsp. in half a litre) every 20 minutes.

Roast for about 2- 3 hours (depending on your oven). For the first hour of roasting, have the goose with it's breast up. Thereafter, turn the goose every half hour being sure the goose is roasting once again on its back for the last 15 minutes.

**__**

Sugar Browned Potatoes

(Skandinavian recipe)

2 pounds small potaotes (about 12) 

1/4 cup sugar 

1/3 cup butter 

Cook potatoes in boiling salted water until tender (20-25 minutes). Drain, cool slightly, and peel.

Cook sugar in a skillet over low heat stirring until sugar caramelizes. Add butter. Stir constantly until smooth. Add potatoes. Roll potatoes in sugar-butter mixture until coated and golden brown. Makes about 6 servings.

**__**

Great-grandmother Gamgee's bread dumplings

I tried to talk the Gamgee family into giving me their secret recipe, but to no avail. So for a detailed and cook-able bread dumpling recipe you may please ask your local hobbit granny :o). 

**__**

Dessert:

Cream Puffs 

1 cup boiling water

1/2 cup butter or shortening

1 cup flour

4 eggs

Add the boiling water to the butter or shortening, bring to a boil and stir in the flour thoroughly. Remove from the fire, let the mixture cool slightly and add the eggs one at a time, beating in each one for some time before adding the next. Drop by spoonfuls on a greased pan about two inches apart, shaping into a circular form and having the batter a little higher in the center. Bake one-half hour in a moderate oven (360° F.). If these cakes are removed from the oven before they are thoroughly done, they will fall. Take out one; if it does not fall, the others may be removed. Cool and split partly with a sharp knife. Fill with _vanilla custard_. Replace cover, and serve immediately. 

_Vanilla Custard _

(Recipe by : James T. Ehler)

I.

1/2 tablespoon Salt

1/2 pound Sugar

1 3/4 ounces Cornstarch

II.

1 Quart Milk

1/2 Tablespoon Vanilla

15 each Egg Yolks

[1) Mix Salt, Sugar & Corn Starch together.

[2) Mix Milk, Vanilla, & Egg Yolks together.

[3) Combine both mixtures.

[4) In a double boiler, slowly bring mixture to heat. STIR CONSTANTLY. 

Cook until custard is thick and bubbling.

[5) Pour into shallow pan, cover with plastic wrap right on top of custard, and refrigerate.

You MUST STIR this mixture CONSTANTLY to avoid lumping.

**__**

Cranachan (with strawberries)

(Scottish recipe, penned by: eretria)

2 tbs medium oatmeal

1 cup cream

2 tbs honey

1 tbs whiskey

500 g strawberries

2 tbs rolled oats, toasted

1.Place oatmeal in a small pan. Stir over low heat 5 min or until lightly toasted. Remove from heat; cool completely.

2. Beat cream in a small mixing bowl until soft peaks form. (Modern hobbits may do this, using electric beaters). Add honey and whiskey; beat until just combined.

3. Fold cooled, toasted oatmeal into the cream mixture, using a metal spoon.

4. Begin layering the strawberries and cream evenly between six tall dessert glasses, ending with the cream. Refrigerate for 2 hours. Serve sprinkled with toasted oats.

__

Do not forget the wine!


End file.
